Sunlight
by agrajagthetesty
Summary: One day, sitting at his desk and holding a staring competition with the mound of paperwork sitting in front of him, he happened to glance up at her and idly wonder whether anyone had ever told her that she was beautiful. A series of Royai oneshots. Complete.
1. Sunlight

**Sunlight**

One day, sitting wearily at his desk and holding a prolonged staring competition with the mound of paperwork sitting smugly in front of him, he happened to glance up at her and idly wonder whether anyone had ever told her that she was beautiful.

For she was, of course. As the only female in a group of largely single males, she would doubtless have been perceived as such whether or not it was actually the case. But, he thought to himself in a detached fashion, in her case it was entirely true. She wasn't perfect or flawless or anything like that- nobody was, especially when they were buttoned severely into the ghastly, unflattering military-issue uniform with their hair pulled back almost viciously tightly into a plain blue clip. But despite all that, she managed to be beautiful. Although her current expression was one of emotionless efficiency, with just a hint of a threat hiding behind her businesslike manner, he knew the range of emotion her soft, heart-shaped face could display- from surprise to irritation to grief to laughter- all lurking in the corners of her neat, tidy mouth and large deep eyes. Her features could- and usually did- all combine, along with her pointed chin and subtly curved cheekbones, to form a picture of military efficiency. But underneath it all, she was a pretty woman nonetheless.

He found himself contemplating it further. There were so many reasons why it would never happen- most of them lying on his side of the blame, he freely admitted- but at that moment, as the sun shone in through the windows behind him onto her soft blonde hair, making him suddenly long to see it falling loose around her face, all he could think of were the reasons why it _could _work- and _should_. He spontaneously thought about what sort of gifts she liked. Flowers? Chocolates? Cards, or jewellery? For some reason he considered that extremely unlikely. There was a chance, though, a miniscule ray of hope that just as under the brisk, businesslike expression she was a woman of emotion, under the pistol-firing behaviour lurked a person that could be won over by teddy bears.

He wondered what she looked like in normal clothes. Neat, stylish suits, blouses open at the neck, long elegant dresses with flowing skirts, or even just pyjamas- waking in bed in the morning, tousled and unwashed.

What would she do if he stole her hair clip?

_You're a madman. She would kill you._

Yes, he thought, listen to the voices. They were, despite their usual lack of accuracy, entirely correct on this occasion.

But it didn't matter. He still wanted to try it, if only for the brief, rare pleasure of seeing her surprised and maybe even a little flushed, hair tumbling long and loose like soft, woven gold over her shoulders- before she shot him dead. It was madness. But he wanted to do it.

That is, until the sun went in, and all the tiny golden sparks of light and heat disappeared from her hair, and the subtle shadows faded from the contours of her face, and she walked swiftly over and deposited a fresh stack of paperwork in front of him. He looked up at her then, as he sat in the shadows behind his desk, and wondered what on Earth he had been thinking. She was his subordinate. She was the only efficient and honestly busy person in the whole room. She had pistols.

He thanked her vaguely for her hard work just as she turned away from him. She turned back and saluted, then walked to the other side of the room to sort through one of the filing cabinets.

He settled further down into his chair. _I was right to start with. She's just a colleague_, he thought assuredly. He glared up at the new pile of paperwork this colleague had just given him. Like it or not, he had to get started, or he would be crushed to death beneath the teetering piles of paper sometime soon. He fumbled in the drawer for a pen, and glanced around the room, looking for a pot of ink.

And the light gathering in the glass behind him chose that precise moment to burst through, alighting gently on her soft, smooth skin and settling cosily into the silky hair that he wanted to set free from its far-too-severe clip, flowing down over the smooth curve of neck and shoulder. . .

He knew it would never work. But he just didn't care.

_Author's Note: I don't normally write romantic fics, but this is probably the most canon pairing in the entire world, and I was suddenly seized with a love for it. Also, I really need to start writing about other people besides the Elric brothers and Winry, and in genres other than angst or general, with occasional two-second bouts of humour. So, what better way to bring it all together? Actually, I quite it. I really seem to be settling into this style of using no names in my stories._

_Dedicated to Legendary Chimera and HughesHanajimaHilariaHypocrite (whose name really is too long for her own good) as a thank you for their help and support. Much love, and I hope you both like Royai --;_


	2. Assumptions

**Assumptions**

Sometimes, when they travel together on a plain-clothes mission, people make incorrect assumptions about the nature of their relationship.

"We'd like to check in, please."

It is an easy mistake to make.

"Sure thing! Will that be a double or a twin room?"

After all, when two people of their age are so comfortable in each other's presence that it is noticeable to strangers- and when their appearances clearly show that they are not brother and sister- there is usually only one other possibility as to the sort of bond they share.

"What's the difference?"

They shouldn't be offended by it.

"Well, sir, a double room has one king-sized bed, and a twin has two single beds."

They ought to be used to it by now.

". . . Oh."

The fact that these people assume their relationship is like _that_ is a compliment to their ability to disguise themselves as normal citizens.

"It'll be a double, of course, but it's protocol to ask, you know."

But every single time it happens, they react badly.

"Forgive me for asking, but are you two . . . ?"

Fingers stiffen inside white starched gloves, ready to snap- and she reacts immediately, grabbing hold of his hand.

"That's right," she says, smiling a ridiculous forced smile while glaring fixedly at the clerk.

He frees his hand from the painful confines of her iron-like grip as soon as they are safely inside the privacy of the elevator. "Lieutenant, you have broken my fingers."

"You need to keep control of your temper, sir," she says coolly, pressing the button to the third floor.

He sighs, leaning against the mirrored wall and running his hand wearily through his hair. "Dammit, Riza, it's just so damn presumptuous."

"I know, sir."

Why should anyone else make any comments on their relationship?

"The girl was intruding."

It is their business, and theirs alone.

"But she meant no harm."

She is right.

But all the same, he cannot help himself. These people are intruding, and it is unnecessary.

After all, he does not need anyone else to tell him when he is in love.

* * *

_Author's notes: So. As you can see, I decided to make this into a series. I'm not sure how many I'll write- maybe ten? In any case, look out for updates. :3_

_This chapter is dedicated to my friend Hannah (thetinylittlepixie on deviantART- go check her stuff out! X3), who requested Royai about a year ago, and whose request I promptly forgot. Sorry! -.-; This one's for you._


	3. Only

**Only**

Many people would be surprised to learn how much trouble Roy Mustang often has getting dressed in the morning. No-one who has ever worked with him would be at all surprised, of course- they know him too well for that- but for others, those who have only ever heard rumours about the great Flame Alchemist, the idea would be laughable.

Because who, when thinking of Roy Mustang, thinks of a tousled head of black hair, damp from the shower, and two dark eyes still not fully awake? Who imagines a mind still clouded and slow with sleep? Who pictures grey shadows etched into the face of a man who has dreams which linger long after he wakes, and which bring images of fire and death back into his mind? Who hears heavy, stumbling footsteps as he wanders from room to room, and who sees crumpled sheets and flattened pillows in her mind's eye? Who remembers sitting in the kitchen watching his stiff fingers on rows of polished brass buttons set against rough blue fabric? Who remembers standing and moving over to him? Who remembers the feel of his white cotton shirt as she helps him with the buttons? Who remembers his mumbled words of thanks and the way he steals a mouthful of her coffee before sitting, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes?

Most people would be unable to believe that this side of him exists. This is due, mostly, to her efforts at keeping it a secret- for the sake of his reputation, she tells him. But, much as she dislikes feeling this way about it, deep down she can't prevent herself from thinking of it as their private ritual, something only the two of them share- and to her, that is a far more pressing reason to keep it quiet.


	4. Protect

**Protect**

It is not Riza's place to defend the military. She does not need to- and more importantly, she does not want to. She feels ill at the thought of attempting to justify the actions of an institution she knows to be ruthless, senseless and brutal, and to do so would for her have meant sacrificing the last of her pride.

No- it is the soldiers she protects. The pawns, the dogs, the murderers, the ones who sold their souls to the state. It is the men behind the guns.

Of course, it is not her place to defend them either. She tries her best to remain stony-faced and neutral whenever she heard people discussing the military (_how people can give up their lives for something like _that_ is beyond me; the things these soldiers do are sickening_) but despite her best efforts she cannot hold her anger in when confronted with such blind observations, resulting in a sharp-tongued retort (_just because they work for the organisation doesn't necessarily mean they agree with it- and besides, think of all the work they do to defend this country_) which usually serves to silence her opponents at once. She knows that she should not voice these thoughts- it is necessary to suppress emotion, in the work she does- but on the other hand, she thinks, someone has to speak out in the soldiers' defence. Someone has to know, to realise that even though they put up with the shortcomings of the state, it doesn't mean they approve of it; that even though they kill, it doesn't mean they don't regret it; that even though they are part of a system, it doesn't mean they don't hate it.

And, although she argues back for the sake of the common foot-soldier as well, there is one particular person that she protects above all else- not just from bullets and knives, but also from the stinging words and spite of the public.


	5. Habit

**Habit**

He tires hard to suppress his amusement when she tells him, rather reluctantly, that in fact she has a number of small habits- but the sideways smirk and the raised eyebrow show themselves all the same.

She glares at him, daring him to make a comment. "What?"

He wrestles his features back into a neutral expression even as he considers. He is not sure why this is such an important issue to her. He has, after all, known for a long time about her strange little mannerisms. _You would have to be blind not to notice,_ he thinks.

There is the way she dresses- she ties her hair up first and puts her jacket on last, even after her shoes. There is the way she eats- how she butters a slice of bread and leaves it untouched on the side of her plate until her main meal is finished; how she turns a piece of fruit over in her hands a number of times before biting into it. There is the way she leaves her shoes in the hallway after coming home from work, and only puts them away in the cupboard directly before going to bed. There is the way she walks on stairs- how she holds her hand slightly above the banister but never touches it. There is the way she speaks, and the way, after smiling, she automatically gives a slight frown. There is the way she sleeps with one of her hands under the pillow, and the way she sets her alarm five minutes early so that she can put a pot of coffee on the stove and dress while it is heating. There is the way she takes his gloves off for him as soon as he has finished working, and the way afterwards, her fingers trace soft slow circles on the backs of his hands.

"It's nothing much," he says. "Just. . . I'd already noticed, you see."

* * *

_Author's notes: Just a quick note to say thank you to everyone that has reviewed or faved. I appreciate it. :3_

_I have decided that this series will consist of ten shorts. So we're halfway through already! O:_


	6. Dance

**Dance**

It is not uncommon for the military to hold functions like this, Havoc knows. It is as though every few months there is some festival or other to celebrate, and even when there is no public holiday, the higher-ups will every so often organise something of their own creation- as if parties could compensate for the drawbacks of the job, he thinks wryly. All the same, the gatherings are popular amongst the lower-ranking soldiers, and nearly every man on base will turn up, if only for half an hour. It is almost a requirement.

Dancing is normal at such events. Most people will dance with everyone else- sometimes briefly, sometimes not- and it is hardly rare for higher-ups to dance with their subordinates- a tradition which Denny Brosh seems to be taking advantage of. The events are fairly informal- when compared to the nature of the organization running them, in any case- and such things, if not encouraged, are at least ignored on these nights.

In short, there ought to be nothing out of the ordinary about the scene before him.

But still, Havoc muses, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his unlit cigarette, there is something, some small unidentifiable _something_. There is something in the way the Colonel's hand tightens on Hawkeye's waist, something in the way their fingers interlock as they dance, something in the way their eyes seem to look anywhere except at each other -_almost like a precaution, why is that?-_ that suggests to him that this particular dance is different from the hundreds of others he has seen here tonight.

* * *

_Author's notes: OMG, a Havoc POV. I never thought I'd see the day. Also, yay for random Brosh/Ross! (Yes, I ship that pairing too. :3)_


	7. Silence

**Silence**

Because he has always liked to talk, and she can certainly hold her own in conversation, there are not many moments of silence between them. They lead busy lives, and do not have much time to sit and be quiet together. All the same, whenever they do have a moment of calm, it always seems as though the silence conveys more than if they had spoken.

When she is standing at the stove in the evening- still in her uniform, usually- stirring whatever meal she has created for them that night, he comes into the room behind her, not even trying to disguise his footsteps, snakes one arm around her waist, lays a light kiss on her neck, and eases the spoon out of her hand. The food suffers for it, usually, but she lets that slide.

When he emerges semi-dressed from the shower- never as early as she would like, on weekends- and ambles confusedly around the bedroom peering into corners, it is she, always, who finds his socks under the bed, of behind a chair, or even, sometimes, in one of the drawers of her dressing table; she hands them to him with a look that speaks volumes.

Whenever she had had an especially tiring week, and sleeps in late on a Sunday morning, he makes sure to get up early: to feed Black Hayate- who for his part is usually delighted at the relaxation of the rules on these mornings- to run a bath for her, and to place a mug of coffee on her bedside table for when she wakes up.

When the door closes behind him- always the last to get home, these days- and when he has taken off his coat and shoes, he goes into the kitchen, where she already is, and sits without a word. Then, without fail, her hands find that one small area in his neck which has been paining him all day, and apply just the right amount of pressure, and it is only then that he can relax.

Words, it turns out, are entirely superfluous in these situations. Their moments of silence are rare, but it is during them that some of the most important things are said.

* * *

_Author's notes: One of my favourites so far. The image of Roy searching for his socks still makes me squee. X3_


	8. Last

**Last**

They are the last ones left in the office.

He has remained at his desk in a display of diligence, head buried in paperwork, listening blindly as Havoc, Breda, Fuery, and even Falman finished their work and left, pulling their coats on and calling goodbyes to the building in general, which he responded to with a wave of his hand, not even taking the time to look up.

"The Colonel's been working so hard," he hears Fuery say as multiple sets of footsteps recede down the corridor. "I wonder what's going on."

"First Lieutenant Hawkeye's finally caught him, most likely."

There are laughs, a door swings closed, and then the office is silent.

Roy grits his teeth. He knows he is lucky to have such fiercely loyal subordinates, but he can't help but wish that they were a little more respectful at times.

He focuses his attention on his work, still managing to keep one eye on the clock, and signs and turns and flips and reads and signs. He can hear time passing; he can almost feel it sliding past the glass windows outside. He counts fifty four minutes off the clock, the numbers decreasing in his head.

Then he stands. He finished his work more than twenty minutes earlier, in fact- but he refuses to leave before she does. He lifts the papers off his desk and goes into the next room, where she is stowing folders in the filing cabinet. Approaching her, he clears his throat; she turns, and he hands over his stack of paperwork.

She raises an eyebrow a fraction of a millimetre as she feels the weight of it- but soon the expression has vanished, and she turns her back on him and begins to file it away. "Good to see you getting so much work in, sir."

And then his fingers are around her palm; she stops speaking abruptly, and paper flutters to the floor as he raises her wrist to his face and presses a kiss to the back of her hand.

It is only a short moment, but it lasts forever.

* * *

_Author's notes: Based on a picture drawn by a very good IRL friend, Hannah (she goes by the name of thetinylittlepixie on deviantart- she hasn't uploaded the picture in question yet, but her site is still well worth a look. :3)_

_I can't believe this series has almost finished already. :O_


	9. Bottle

**Bottle**

It was Maes, he thinks, who brought them together.

Back in the day- before they all decided, on what they know now to have been nothing more that a childish whim, to join the military- it was Maes who seemed to keep their little group alive. Whenever they fought with each other- which was often- Maes would seek out the wounded parties, calm them, soothe them, chide them if necessary, and smooth over the jagged edges of the argument. He would ignore any irritated comments that came his way, and laughed off any insults directed at him with a carefree shrug.

And after they joined the military, and fought in wars, and became murderers, it was Maes who came to him when he was at his lowest and who dragged him out of his misery and desperation by the scruff of his neck. It was Maes who helped him throughout the entirety of both their careers, Maes who backed him up and supported him, who protected him and who aided him.

It was Maes who saved him.

He lets the photograph slip from between his fingers, and as it flutters down to land face-down upon the table, he thinks, _now what?_

His hands find the neck of the bottle without his even thinking about it, but when he raises it to his eyes he sees nothing but a shadowed, distorted version of himself in the smooth curved glass. _That's right,_ he thinks. _The only thing you find in a bottle is that deep, dark part of yourself- the one you constantly try to suppress._

He drinks anyway.

Until a pair of hands are on the bottle and are prising it firmly away; he groans, and makes some unintelligible noise of protest, but his fingers are not as strong as normal, for some reason, and very soon they surrender completely.

He turns, and she is there, gazing steadily at him with eyes that shout of pain and regret and, beneath all those other feelings, of understanding.

He looks back at her for all of a second- but then his knees give way, and he is surprised to find himself in her arms. There are tears- they could be his, or maybe hers, or even a combination of the two- and a strange harsh sob he knows to be his own.

The bottle rolls along the floor away from them, spilling a dark shining trail of liquid as it goes.


	10. Moonlight

**Moonlight**

_It's useless,_ he thinks, looking up at the skinny beam of light cutting across the ceiling. No matter how hard they attempt to persuade them to, the curtains in his apartment simply will not close properly. No amount of adjusting can disguise the fact that there is six inches' gap between them: half a foot of bare uncovered window that allows moonlight to shine freely into the room.

It doesn't seem to be bothering her, he thinks somewhat petulantly, turning his head a fraction of a degree to one side and watching the round of her shoulder rise and fall with the steady rhythm of her breathing. He has always found it difficult to fall asleep if there is even a tiny amount of light in the room; she has no such problem, it seems. She lies facing away from him, her hair loose and glinting ashen across the pillow, the curved line from cheek to neck to upper arm silvered by the pale light.

He traces the surface of her skin with his eyes.

She seems to feel his gaze on her- she stirs; rolls over towards him; opens her eyes, steady and direct even through sleep. "What is it?" she murmurs.

"I was thinking," he says.

Satisfied, she moves so that she is facing away from him again, and settles down into the folds of white cloth, giving a slight sigh as her eyes close once more.

He moves one finger down over the side of her jaw. "I was thinking that I love you," he says.

* * *

_Author's notes: This is the last of the shorts I have written. As such, although I might possibly write more in the future, I am changing this series' status to "Complete". Thank you all for reading. :D_


End file.
